


a fighting chance

by pancakewars



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Blood, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Pandemics, References to Suicide, lots of unnamed unimportant characters die, major character death!!!, mostly video game style violence, no hardcore gore but there are guns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-31
Updated: 2016-01-31
Packaged: 2018-05-17 10:18:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5865535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pancakewars/pseuds/pancakewars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Promise me you’ll run as far from Tokyo as possible,” is the last thing Akaashi’s mother says to him. “Promise you’ll find somewhere safe, that you won’t trust anyone with your life.”</p><p>Akaashi tries. But eventually, he breaks all three promises.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a fighting chance

**Author's Note:**

> LIES ON THE FLOOR
> 
> I started writing this as a way of avoiding my responsibilities, totally sure I would be able to wrap it up in a few thousand words. Then... this happened. 10k of procrastination fic x__x
> 
> Please read the warnings thoroughly before proceeding! Do take note that this fic contains major character death. If you're unsure about anything, feel free to ask.
> 
> As always, thank you to the people who light up my fic-writing life: SHSL Hand-holder [Alice](http://archiveofourown.org/users/kierenwalkers), Awesome Beta [Reet](http://archiveofourown.org/users/girltalk/pseuds/girltalk), and my very wonderful sibling.

Akaashi stops walking after almost six hours, somewhere along the periphery of the most deserted-looking town yet. An abandoned mall doesn’t present good odds, but Akaashi doesn’t have a lot to lose at this point.

He ventures into a hardware store, its windows punched out and glass shards littered across the interior. Past the glue guns and building tools to the very end of the aisle. His hands have barely brushed nylon when he hears a soft click from behind him.

“Drop your weapon,” says a voice.

Akaashi’s gun is empty. He’d fired his last bullet yesterday, at the very same moment he’d traded the last shreds of his humanity for a few bottles of water. The girl couldn’t have been older than fifteen, _I’m not armed_ and _take what you want_ and _just don’t shoot_ , but Akaashi didn’t know if she was lying, and a dead girl can’t stab him in the back later.

His gun hits the floor with a clatter. The stranger begins circling around him from behind, quiet and calculating. Weighing the merits of keeping him alive, probably. Akaashi knows there aren’t many.

He closes his eyes. He’s made it far enough, anyway. He’s tired. The next airport is too damn far away, and even if he got there, by some miracle, there’s no real guarantee of safety. For all he knows, the airports have been taken over too.

He wonders if his mom would be disappointed that he’s giving up so easily.

“You can open your eyes,” says the voice, gentler this time. Akaashi complies. He finds himself staring into the gold eyes of a stranger, who has broad shoulders and looks to be around Akaashi’s age. There are black streaks through his white hair, and he’s smiling. Akaashi can’t remember the last time he saw someone smile.

“Come join me,” the stranger offers, motioning towards the exit with the hand that’s not wrapped around an assault rifle. “We have cookies.”

 

 

 

 

The end of the world isn’t anything like a zombie apocalypse. The infection that rises from the ashes of the worst nuclear disaster in history claims its victims swiftly and silently, in a way neither doctor nor scientist understands. There are no bites, no rotting flesh or inhuman screeching to tell infected apart from the non-infected.

The infection manifests itself in paranoia, delusions, insanity. People start killing their own friends and family, then putting guns to their own heads. Governments start bombing their own populations to stop the infection from spreading further.

Most of humanity wipes itself out.

Initially, Tokyo is spared. As the infection encroaches on the city, more and more non-infected are ushered to the military facility located there. Those with immunity are experimented on as part of the search for a cure, rumours say. Anyone who declines shelter is gunned down on the spot.

“Promise me you’ll run as far from Tokyo as possible,” is the last thing Akaashi’s mother says to him, a week before the city-wide screening. There’s a certain hopefulness in her eyes, and Akaashi’s hands curl into fists behind his back. “Promise you’ll find somewhere safe, that you won’t trust anyone with your life.”

Akaashi tries. But eventually, he breaks all three promises.

 

 

 

 

The stranger’s name is Bokuto, and “we” consists of him and one friend. Kuroo is tall and lean, with a head of black hair that looks like it’s never once been combed, not even before the world ended. He watches Akaashi demolish a pack of Oreos and says, “Bokuto, dude, this kid better be the best shot in the country. That was my lunch for the next three days.”

Their base is in a run-down office building, and they have enough supplies to suggest they’re more than capable of taking care of themselves. Bokuto shows Akaashi where they keep their medical kit and stash of comics. Kuroo's hand never leaves his gun.

Akaashi counts the rations in his head. There’s enough to last him weeks on his own, to at least triple his chances of survival.

“This place is a ghost town,” Kuroo explains, toying with the safety catch. “Not much here by the time we got to it. The upside is there aren’t many infected. The downside is, well, there isn’t much of anything at all.”

“Your supplies won’t last forever,” Akaashi says. “What then?”

Kuroo’s smile is cryptic. “That’s for us to know.”

He doesn’t trust Akaashi, and rightly so. Akaashi waits for Kuroo’s concentration to slip, for him to take his eyes away to say something to Bokuto before he launches himself at Kuroo, wrenches the gun from his grasp. It’s some sort of pistol, heavy in his hand. Akaashi turns it on them, his heart pounding.

“Don’t move,” he commands. “Hands up. Get on your knees.”

They obey. Bokuto with a look of surprise on his face, Kuroo less so. Akaashi points the gun at him, then to Bokuto, then back to Kuroo again. He isn’t going to kill them, not after they spared his life and fed him, but he does want their food and water.

Kuroo’s eyes slide over to Bokuto. “I hate your taste in men,” he sighs, ignoring the indignant noise Bokuto makes. Kuroo winks at Akaashi. “Just kidding. You’re the first one he’s ever brought back here.”

Neither Bokuto nor Kuroo are acting like they fear for their lives. Akaashi tightens his grip on the gun. “You shouldn’t have let your guard down,” he bites, in an attempt to reassert some control over the situation.

He doesn’t hear anyone come up behind him, but he does feel the cool metal of a gun barrel pressed to his temple.

“Same to you,” says a new voice.

Akaashi doesn’t have a choice; he drops the pistol. The newcomer kicks the discarded gun out of reach, right past Kuroo’s waiting hand.

When the gun at his temple is lowered, Akaashi turns and sees a boy similar in age to him, about half a head shorter and wearing an oversized red jacket. His hair is dyed blonde, the roots growing out. The kind of kid Akaashi wouldn’t have thought twice about, had he encountered him on the streets a month ago.

Kuroo looks irrationally pleased by the turn of events. Bokuto gets to his feet.

“Akaashi,” he beams, gesturing warmly to the newcomer. “This is Kenma.”

 

 

 

 

For some reason, they let Akaashi stay. They don’t tie him up, but he’s not allowed a gun and Bokuto is assigned to keep close watch over him. He talks constantly and asks a lot of prying questions, but Akaashi finds he doesn’t mind all that much. After a while, he declines answering just to see the way Bokuto pouts.

He decides to cooperate with the group for the time being. It’s strange to have people he can rely on, but Akaashi is careful not to trust them too easily. Not as long as he’s dispensable. Not when they won’t even tell him their plan—

“Here’s the plan,” announces Kuroo. “If we head over to the next prefecture, we’ll probably have a good shot at getting a car. We get there, get the car, get the hell out.”

There are no questions asked. They gather their supplies and set out at dawn.

 

 

 

 

The first few hours pass uneventfully. The closer they get to the town center, the more convinced Akaashi is that the plan isn’t going to go quite so smoothly. He sticks close to Bokuto and his rifle. The crowbar he was given only offers so much protection.

The town is oddly quiet, the smell of death in the air. There are bodies strewn across the street— adults, teenagers, a mother with her arms wrapped protectively around her dead child. Most of them look like they haven’t been there long. The occasional live infected doesn’t stand a chance against four boys, three guns, and a crowbar.

As the daylight dwindles, they break off into a street of abandoned houses to find shelter for the night. They’re passing what looks like an old post office when its door bursts open in a shower of splinters.

A tall boy brandishing a knife launches himself at Kuroo, knocking him to the ground. It all happens fast— Kuroo kicks out a leg, sending the boy rolling across the ground, but the boy recovers and lunges a second time. He knocks Kuroo back down, this time pinning his legs.

Kuroo raises his gun. But instead of pulling the trigger, he hesitates.

The boy raises his knife high above his head.

“Kuro—” Kenma yells.

Akaashi hurls his crowbar as hard as he can. It hits the boy square in the face and he stumbles back, howling. Bokuto fires a round and the boy drops like a rag doll.

The silence that follows is deafening. Akaashi hears Bokuto let out a shaky exhale next to him. “That was close,” he breathes.

Kenma rushes to Kuroo’s side.

“I’m fine,” Kuroo assures them, sounding a little dazed. “I— thanks. I slipped up— that guy was quite the looker— okay, okay, no jokes. I’m fine.” He gathers himself, climbs to his feet. “The noise might attracted some unwanted attention,” he says grimly. “We should move.”

“But first,” Bokuto calls. He tosses something over to Akaashi, a blur of silver, and Akaashi snags it out of the air on reflex.

It’s an old-fashioned revolver with a wooden handle, fully loaded. Bokuto grins.

“Welcome to the team.”

 

 

 

 

Akaashi wakes up in the middle of the night to the sound of hushed voices.

“This is a bad idea,” Kuroo murmurs, somewhere to his right. “We have no clue what his immunity is like. What if he goes infected on us?”

A pause. “We shoot him?” Bokuto tries.

Akaashi cracks an eye open, just enough to see Kenma fast asleep on the couch opposite his. He closes his eye again and lies still, listening.

“If _I_  get infected?” Kuroo asks.

“We shoot you.”

Kuroo laughs. “Very good.”

Akaashi can’t tell what’s happening, but he hears Bokuto chuckle. It occurs to him that Bokuto and Kuroo must be pretty close friends, to have come this far together. Akaashi wonders how long they’ve known each other.

The next time Bokuto says something, Akaashi lifts his pillow a fraction and nudges his revolver out from underneath it, onto the floor. The sound it makes against the rotting hardwood cuts Bokuto off mid-sentence. Seconds later, Bokuto appears to try and join him on the couch.

“Can’t sleep?” Bokuto asks brightly, practically climbing on top of him. He looks far too energetic for someone who’s probably been up since first watch. “Don’t worry, Akaashi. Whatever it is you’re afraid of, I’ll protect you.”

There’s something about Bokuto’s optimism that’s reassuring, endearing, like he’s somehow managed to stay untainted by everything that’s happening around them. Akaashi shifts under Bokuto’s weight. Bokuto is heavy, but not uncomfortably so.

“Get a room,” Kuroo deadpans from the entrance.

Bokuto props himself up on an elbow. “Bro, remember when we barely knew each other, when I first met you and Kenma—”

“OKAY,” Kuroo says. “Don’t get a room, see if I care.”

Akaashi wants to laugh, but his eyelids are suddenly a lot heavier than they had been seconds ago. Bokuto scoots over a little so that he’s not half-crushing him. The couch they’re on is only really large enough for one person, but Bokuto’s body is warm against his.

For the first time since the world ended, Akaashi falls asleep feeling safe.

 

 

 

 

Despite the no-going-out-alone and no-going-out-after-dark rules they’d collectively agreed on, Akaashi spots Kenma sneaking out one evening and decides to trail him. Kenma walks quickly, with the calculated steps of someone who knows exactly where they’re going. Eventually, he reaches what looks like it was once a small corner store.

The cracked glass door makes no sound as he slips inside. Akaashi waits a few seconds before he emerges from his hiding place and follows suit, drawing his gun as a precaution.

 _Underground organisation_ is his first thought as he eases the door open. It seems like a stretch, but Kenma is enough of an enigma at this point that Akaashi wouldn’t be surprised. What he does see makes him stop and lower his gun.

“What are you doing?” Akaashi asks.

Kenma jumps up from where he’s crouched over one of the shelves, dropping the backpack in his hands. It bursts open on the ground, scattering an assortment of brightly-coloured items across the floor.

Akaashi raises an eyebrow. “Candy?”

“Chocolate,” Kenma corrects, red in the face. “Look, I haven’t seen a store like this in weeks, and Kuroo usually doesn’t let me near places like this.” He eyes Akaashi warily, as if waiting for him to oppose.

Akaashi shrugs and backs off. He watches as Kenma gathers the spilled snacks, realises that Kenma probably isn’t that puzzling of a person after all. They walk back to the hideout together, careful to re-enter the house quietly. Akaashi barters a third of the chocolate for not telling on him.

Kuroo and Bokuto go out on reconnaissance the next morning, which gives them perfect opportunity to break out the contraband candy. Akaashi sets aside a few of his pieces to give to Bokuto later.

“What happened to Kuroo the other day?” he asks, watching Kenma unwrap a bar of chocolate. “When he was attacked by that kid with the knife, I mean.”

Akaashi figures that if anyone could explain it, it would be Kenma. Ever since Bokuto had mentioned that Kuroo and Kenma had known each other first, Akaashi had started paying closer attention. Sure enough, Kuroo lost a lot of the steel in his eyes when he talked to Kenma. Kenma hardly ever smiled, but when he did it was when he was with Kuroo.

A mutual understanding, an easy friendship. It must be nice.

“Kuro has no problem with shooting people, if that’s what you’re asking.” Kenma blinks at him, eyes sharp and almost cat-like. “Try anything weird and he’ll shoot you in the head.”

It’s not what Akaashi had been asking, but he doesn’t press the matter.

“You’re lucky Bokuto was the one who found you,” Kenma muses. He takes a bite of his chocolate and talks around it. “You wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

Akaashi doesn’t doubt it.

 

 

 

 

By the following afternoon, they’ve reached the edge of the prefecture. Kuroo points out a radio tower in the distance, visible against the skyline. “By the end of tomorrow, we could be in Osaka,” he says wistfully. “Do you think we can drop by Universal Studios? I heard they have— _no_ , Kenma, it was a joke.”

They’re running low on supplies, so while Kuroo and Kenma go off to find food, Akaashi accompanies Bokuto weapon-hunting along the town border.

Two hours later and they haven’t found anything of use, but they do find an old, overgrown park during their search. Bokuto makes a whooping noise and runs over to sit on one of its intact benches. Akaashi only hesitates a moment before joining him.

“There used to be a place like this near my home,” Bokuto tells him. “I liked Tokyo. I was sad to leave.” He tilts his head towards Akaashi. “What about you? What’s your story?”

His gaze is earnest, questioning. Akaashi wants to tell him that the only thing he’d ever been good at back home was being average— an average student, average volleyball player, average son. That he’s scared of being alone out here. But so is everybody else.

“My mom,” he settles on. “She died of the infection.”

He’d thought saying it out loud would hurt, but the admission evokes little more than a dull ache in his chest. It feels almost like a relief to finally acknowledge it.

"That sucks," Bokuto kicks at the dirt underneath his sneakers. “But sometimes you just have to suck it up and keep going, right?”

Akaashi nods, even though Bokuto isn’t looking at him. “Yeah.”

He wonders if it’s possible to feel the onset of the infection. Whether you feel yourself losing your mind, little by little, or whether you’re lost forever in an instant. He wonders if his mom had known what was coming before it happened.

“Why didn’t you shoot me?” he asks Bokuto. “When we first met. I would have shot you.”

He doesn’t know what answer he expects. Bokuto leans back in his seat, casts his eyes upwards. “I saw the look in your eye,” he answers eventually. “I guess you could say I knew how you felt.”

Akaashi looks up too. The sky is clear, cloudless, a perfect shade of light blue. It’s weird. If he were to keep his eyes there, he could almost pretend it’s a normal day out. No nuclear disaster, no infection, no desolate town.

“I had a sister,” Bokuto says suddenly. Akaashi tears his gaze away to look at him. “She went to an early screenings and tested positive. They took her away. My parents couldn’t accept it, and… well, I packed my bag after that. Left Tokyo alone.”

“How do you do it?” Akaashi asks. “How do you not just give up?”

“I tell myself that there will always be something worth fighting for, you know? Somewhere along the line.” The way Bokuto smiles, like he truly believes there’s good in the world, squeezes something painful in Akaashi’s chest. “What about you, what do you think?”

Akaashi thinks he likes Bokuto, who’s honest and strong and, if Akaashi were to be honest with himself, has given him a reason to fight. “I think—”

Akaashi senses a sudden movement in his peripheral vision, reaches for his gun a moment too late. Someone is already in front of them, dressed from head to toe in camouflage, a rifle in his hands.

“Drop your weapon,” he barks. He looks older than them and speaks with a certain authority, like he expects to be obeyed. “Stand up and put both your hands in the air. No sudden movements. I don’t want to have to shoot either of you.”

Not an infected, then.

They’re caught without a way out, the stranger’s gun moving between them. Akaashi curses his own carelessness and tosses his revolver down. Bokuto’s gun follows.

“Okay,” the stranger says. “I’ll need you two to follow me.”

Akaashi exchanges a glance with Bokuto. Non-infected fall into two categories— those who prefer to avoid confrontation, and those who will rob you of your possessions or kill you for trespassing. Friendly non-infected wouldn’t join up with just anyone, especially not after threatening them at gunpoint.

“Where are you taking us?” Bokuto asks pleasantly.

“Someplace safe,” is the curt reply.

Akaashi wouldn’t bet anything on his own sixth sense, but the way the stranger says it makes his skin crawl. His unease only worsens when the stranger leads them away, leaving their discarded weapons. Akaashi can’t think of anyone out here who wouldn’t want— _need_ — as much firepower as they can get. Something is off, and he isn’t keen on sticking around to find out what.

They’re ushered in a different direction to the one they’d come. After only a minute of walking, the stranger lifts a hand and barks out a, “Wait.” He lowers his gun, withdraws a walkie-talkie from his pocket. Akaashi doesn’t miss Bokuto’s bewildered look.

The stranger shakes the device and clicks his tongue. “Stupid thing isn’t working—”

Akaashi takes the chance. He leaps forward and tackles the stranger, making sure to knock his gun out of firing range.

The stranger turns out to be surprisingly agile. He’s also a lot stronger than Akaashi expects, backhanding Akaashi across the face as he makes a grab for the gun, stunning him. Before Akaashi can process any movement, the stranger gets ahold of his shoulder and slams him to the ground, so hard that he sees stars.

Akaashi tries to get up, but the stranger pushes him back down with a knee to the chest. He twists to try and break free, but the stranger has his gun back in his hands. Instead of using it, though, he reaches forward and curls his fingers around Akaashi’s neck.

His grip is like a vice, pressing painfully into Akaashi’s windpipe. Akaashi struggles against the hold, fingers scrabbling uselessly at the stranger’s hand. Distantly, he thinks he hears Bokuto’s voice. The edges of his vision begin to blur.

“Fuck orders,” comes a faint, distorted sound. “I’ll kill you right here, you little—”

The pressure on his neck is released suddenly, and the stranger falls back with a scream. Akaashi gasps and rolls over, unable to do anything but lie still and suck air into his lungs. As his head clears, he becomes aware of the sounds of a struggle. There’s a wet, choking noise— not Bokuto, which is what matters most. Akaashi gets unsteadily to his feet and turns.

“Ugh,” Bokuto says. “I was hoping never to have to do that.” He’s standing over the stranger’s motionless body, a bloodied switchblade in his hand. He looks up at Akaashi, brow knitted in concern. “You okay?”

Akaashi nods. “The walkie talkie?” he rasps.

Bokuto picks it up and hands it over. It looks unremarkable, a piece black plastic that doesn’t do anything, no matter what Akaashi presses.

“Broken,” Akaashi confirms, trying not to sound disappointed. “Just like he said.”

“Hey,” Bokuto says, drawing Akaashi’s attention to the fallen stranger. Akaashi’s eyes follow to where Bokuto is pointing, the small patch emblazoned on the stranger’s shirt. The crest displayed is a familiar one. Akaashi feels his grip on the walkie-talkie slacken.

The military.

 

 

 

 

“Maybe they’re looking for people who are immune,” Kenma suggests. “You said the soldier didn’t try to shoot you?”

“Soldiers aren’t supposed to shoot civilians,” Bokuto sniffs. “They’re supposed to help them.”

Kuroo wrinkles his nose. “Bro, what world are you living in?”

Something else is bothering Akaashi. “No one knows what the military wants.” He thinks back to the rumours that had spread faster than the infection in Tokyo. “Is it true they’re experimenting on people?”

Kuroo and Kenma share a look. “We had a friend,” Kuroo says, as Kenma looks away. “Among the first batch to be taken in under the government’s shelter program. We found his body a few days later, dumped somewhere down by the river. It was bad. Their supposed protection scheme obviously isn’t, well, about protecting people.”

“Can we talk about something else?” Kenma asks, closing his eyes. “Anything else.”

Bokuto reaches out and grabs Kuroo’s backpack. “I have an idea,” he says, eyes sparkling. “Let’s play a game. Each of us hands our backpack to the person on our right, and you go through it and pick one thing you’ve found to show everyone.”

Kenma looks alarmed. Kuroo raises an eyebrow. “What kind of game—”

“Let’s do it,” Akaashi says.

He doesn’t know why he agrees so easily, but the way Bokuto cheers, fists thrust out and expression triumphant, makes it worth it.

Kuroo crosses his arms. “You just want to go through my bag.”

Bokuto laughs, but doesn’t deny it. He unzips the backpack and rummages through its contents, pulling out something thin and white. “This is it,” he announces gleefully. “This is what I wanted a proper look at.”

Akaashi leans over, curious. Bokuto is holding a polaroid of Kuroo and Kenma, presumably taken not long before the end of the world. Kuroo has an arm around Kenma’s neck, head turned to press a kiss to Kenma’s cheek. Kenma has an exaggerated smile on his face. The photo somehow seems incredibly intimate, but also—

“ _Adorable_ ,” Akaashi says, fighting a grin of his own.

Bokuto looks delighted. “Isn’t it?”

To Akaashi’s right, Kenma looks embarrassed. Kuroo has his face in his hands.

“Okay, enough,” he groans, reaching over and snatching the polaroid out of Bokuto’s hand. “My turn now.” He pulls Kenma’s backpack over to him and opens it. “You know, it’s not like there’s anything in here I haven’t already—” Kuroo extracts a bar of chocolate from the bag, holding it between his index finger and thumb. “What’s this?” he demands, turning to squint at Kenma. “Where’d you get this?”

Akaashi can’t help it— he laughs. Kenma shoots him a betrayed look.

“Kenma,” Kuroo implores. “Why won’t you share nice things with me after I let you have part of everything I own, including my heart—”

“My turn,” Kenma interrupts quickly, grabbing Akaashi’s backpack. Kuroo stops talking to sigh as Kenma searches the bag. After a minute or so, Kenma gently turns it over and empties its contents onto the floor.

“Nothing,” he says, sounding both disappointed and intrigued. “There’s nothing personal in here at all. Only the most basic essentials.”

Akaashi shrugs. He’s not in the habit of carrying items of sentimental value with him. His favourite book, one his mom had given to him when he was six, would take up the same amount of space as several cans of food.

Bokuto taps his chin thoughtfully. “That kind of suits you.”

“I was expecting, I don’t know, party streamers or drugs or something,” Kuroo says. “But it’s cute that you’re boring. Go on, your turn now. Give us something good from Bokuto.”

Bokuto’s backpack, unlike Akaashi’s, turns out to be full of personality. Akaashi pushes aside what looks like a pair of knee guards, a bunch of colourful fliers, and a pair of tangled earphones before he grabs hold of something tiny and fluffy.

Kenma frowns. “What’s that?”

“A great horned owl,” Akaashi murmurs. It’s a stuffed toy, no larger than his palm.

Bokuto’s eyes light up. “You know it?”

“Yeah,” Akaashi turns it over in his hand. “I… I like owls.”

If possible, Bokuto looks even more excited. “You can have it,” he says immediately. “Since you don’t have anything pretty in your bag.”

Akaashi looks up quickly. “No, I can’t, it’s yours—”

Bokuto reaches over and closing Akaashi’s fingers over the toy. “Keep it safe, okay?”

Akaashi nods mutely, chest tight. It’s not a particularly significant gesture, but maybe that’s the point. Akaashi had forgotten what mundane acts of friendship felt like. He’s suddenly aware of how close Bokuto is sitting to him, their knees brushing. The skin of his hand where Bokuto had touched feels warm.

“They’re having a moment,” Kuroo mutters to Kenma.

“I can hear you,” Akaashi says.

Kenma rolls his eyes. “They’re always having moments.”

They stay up just making jabs at each other, until Bokuto can barely keep his eyes open and Kuroo claims his whole body hurts from laughing and even Kenma is smiling. Akaashi lets the sound of their voices wash over him, forgets for a while that he’s never going to see his family again, that humanity is fighting a losing battle, and that nowhere in the world is safe.

 

 

 

 

The infected come for them in the night.

One minute Akaashi is sound asleep, the next minute there are fingers digging into his shoulder, shaking him awake. He scrambles up on autopilot, revolver in his hand before he’s on his feet.

“Get up,” Kuroo is hissing. “Get up, get up, we need to _move_ —”

Around him, there’s the sound of Bokuto and Kenma pulling themselves up as well. Akaashi blinks the sleep out of his eyes, struggling to adjust to the darkness.

“Get your bags,” Kuroo instructs in a low voice. “Out the back door. Hurry.”

There’s no time for questions. They grab their backpacks, slip out the back in a flurry of bodies. Akaashi spots an alley further up the street, between two buildings that look like they’re leaning against each other. “That way. Come on.”

“Kuro,” Kenma stops abruptly. “Where’s Kuro—”

“ _Go_ ,” Kuroo yells from inside the apartment. “I’m right behind you!”

The sound of gunshots rings out as Kenma makes a grab for the door. Akaashi yanks him back. “Kuroo can take care of himself,” he says. “We need to get out of here.” Bokuto follows behind them as Akaashi drags Kenma towards the road, gun at the ready.

The night air is frigid, cold wind beating against their faces as they run. They make it all the way to the other end of the alley before Bokuto turns. “I should go back,” he tells them. “We can’t leave Kuroo behind—”

“I’m here,” comes a faint cry, and Kuroo emerges behind them— jogging to catch up, out of breath but otherwise unharmed. Kenma visibly sags with relief. “I bought us some time,” Kuroo pants. “But we have to go. Run. _Run_.”

Akaashi leads the way, Bokuto on his tail. Kenma is behind Bokuto, with Kuroo bringing up the rear. The residential area they’re in is relatively small; Akaashi improvises a route that will provide them with the most cover, his heart thudding in double-time with his steps.

“Fuck,” Kuroo curses, turning and firing a shot behind him as the buildings thin out, making way for a thicket of trees. “They’re coming.”

“Kuro,” Kenma gasps, voice high and panicked. “Why are they chasing us, they were never this persistent before—”

“Stop,” Akaashi shouts, throwing his hands out. “Stop running.”

Bokuto makes a noise of surprise, stopping just short of slamming into his back. Kenma doubles over, chest heaving. Kuroo nearly trips over him.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Kuroo snarls at Akaashi. “Are you trying to get us killed?”

“There’s no one behind us,” Akaashi says, the realisation weighing heavy on his chest. He looks desperately around at them. “Listen, there’s _no one there_.”

Everyone stills, listening. There’s no sound of movement, no approaching footsteps. Nothing but the sound of their ragged breathing.

Kuroo eyes flicker towards the direction they’re supposed to be running in. Akaashi moves to block his path. “There’s nothing, we’re running from _nothing_ —”

“Enough of this bullshit,” Kuroo mutters. His arm snaps up, and Akaashi finds himself looking directly into the barrel of Kuroo’s gun.

Akaashi doesn’t move.

“Kuroo—” Bokuto takes a step forward, but Akaashi shakes his head. Bokuto falls silent.

“Do you hear anything?” Akaashi asks. He feels like throwing up. He can barely feel his legs, but he forces himself to speak calmly. “Did anyone see an infected? _Hear_ an infected? We only ever heard gunfire.” He looks around slowly at each of them, willing them to understand. “The infected don’t work in groups. There were never any in the apartment to begin with.”

Even by the pale light of the moon, Kenma’s face is white. “Kuro?”

Kuroo’s eyes are narrowed, his arm unwavering. “Get out of my way,” he demands. There’s a dangerous edge to his voice that Akaashi has never heard before.

“Kuroo?” Bokuto sounds uneasy. “Akaashi is right. Put that away.”

Kuroo whirls on him, barrel of his gun now pointed at Bokuto’s forehead.

“Fucking unbelievable,” he laughs, the sound sharp, scathing. “I kept you alive for _weeks_ , and you take the new kid’s side?” He surveys Bokuto, steps around him, keeping his gun trained on his forehead the whole time. “We shouldn’t have joined up,” he says bitterly. “We should never have called out to you that day—”

Bokuto steps back, as if slapped.

“Kuroo,” Akaashi pleads. “Put the gun away. Let’s talk this over.”

“I don’t think so,” Kuroo says, ghost of a smile on his lips. His finger twitches, millimeters from the trigger. “Bye, Bokuto.”

Akaashi doesn’t move in time. _Can’t_ move in time. A gunshot rips through the air, sending a sharp, painful jolt of dread through Akaashi’s body. It’s louder than any gunshot he’s ever heard.

Kuroo pitches sideways, a bullet hole through his head.

He’s dead before he hits the ground. Kenma is standing behind him, both hands around his raised pistol, a thin line of smoke trailing from the barrel.

Akaashi can’t breathe, can’t even think. His heart feels like it’s about to explode out of his chest from beating so hard. Bokuto is standing rooted to the spot, eyes impossibly round, but he’s fine. Bokuto is fine. Bokuto is alive.

Kenma sinks to the ground.

“Kenma,” Akaashi stumbles over to him, gently coaxes the gun out of his hand as Bokuto shakes himself out of his stupor. Kenma’s face seems to be frozen in shock. He’s saying something, so soft that Akaashi has to lean in close to make out the words.

“It wasn’t him,” Kenma whispers. “That wasn’t Kuro, it wasn’t him, he was—” He breaks off, head bowed and shoulders shaking.

“Infected,” Akaashi finishes, mouth dry. “Kuroo was infected.”

 

 

 

 

The next town is significantly larger than the last. Supplies are easier to come by, but the place is crawling with soldiers.

Akaashi crouches behind several large crates, watching the guards at the end of the road carefully. When the coast is clear, he motions for Bokuto and Kenma to follow him.

They don’t talk about Kuroo, but they don’t have to— his absence is glaring, throwing the rest of them off-tempo. Kenma has barely spoken since the incident. Even Bokuto’s smile looks forced now, more and more of their downtime spent sitting quietly, staring off into nothing.

Quite suddenly, Akaashi feels like he’s the only thing holding their little group together.

“Really,” comes a foreign voice, startlingly close, and Akaashi gestures quickly for Bokuto and Kenma to get down. “I don’t know much about fighting for survival out here, but it’s gotta be better than what’s happening back at base.”

“Sacrifices have to be made,” says another, a woman this time. “It isn’t our job to question it.”

Akaashi thinks about the implications of their words, pushes the thought to the back of his mind to worry about later. Once the voices grow distant, he signals for Bokuto and Kenma to keep moving.

There are no more soldiers to sneak past before they reach the junkyard. They split up when they get there, fanning out to search around for a working vehicle. Dozens of battered cars later, plus one rusty pickup that looks so old Akaashi is convinced it must have welded itself to the earth by now, Bokuto strikes gold.

Or red, to be precise. The car he finds is hidden among piles of scrap metal, filthy and dented, but otherwise in decent shape. Akaashi doesn’t care much for cars beyond their ability to get him from point A to B, but even he has to admit that this one seems nice. Or maybe it’s the fact that he’s looking at their ticket out of town.

“He would’ve loved this,” Bokuto murmurs, running a hand over the surface of the vehicle, fingers coming away dirty. The paint underneath looks a shade brighter than before. Bokuto turns to Akaashi, a familiar enthusiasm in his eyes. “Can we take it?”

Akaashi nods. He looks from the driver’s door to Bokuto. “Do you want to—” he starts, before he stops. “No,” he mutters to himself. “I’ll drive.”

It doesn’t matter in the end, though, because the car won’t start.

A week ago, Akaashi might have slammed his hands against the dashboard in frustration. Now, he simply can’t find the energy.

Bokuto slumps in the passenger seat. Akaashi carefully avoids looking at him. He turns his eyes instead on the cracked rear-view mirror in time to see Kenma getting out of the backseat, coming around to open the hood of the car. Even through the grimy windscreen, the disappointment on his face is plain.

“It’s missing a part,” Kenma reports quietly. “This car isn’t going anywhere.”

Akaashi lets his head fall back against the headrest. This had been their best shot at getting out of town. It might have been their _only_ shot at getting out of town. The further they stray from the border, the more soldiers they’ll encounter, the slimmer their chances of a getaway.

“It’s fine,” Akaashi says for the umpteenth time, no longer sure he believes it himself. “We’ll just have to keep looking.”

 

 

 

 

Bokuto crawls his way over to him in the middle of the night.

“Akaashi,” he whispers. “Are you awake?”

Akaashi hesitates before he replies with a quiet, “Yeah.” He’s been awake since Kenma took first watch several hours ago. He’s tired, exhausted down to the bone. But each time he closes his eyes, all he hears is the dull thud of Kuroo’s body hitting the ground.

There’s the sound of movement, and then a familiar weight as Bokuto climbs on top of him. Akaashi can feel his body heat through the fabric of his clothes.

“Remember the friend Kuroo talked about?” Bokuto asks. “The one given shelter by the government? Did you know—” Bokuto leans forward, his face centimeters from Akaashi’s. “Kuroo said he clawed his own throat out. He wasn’t even infected when they took him in. Imagine what they _did_  to him in there.” Bokuto shudders against him.

His eyes are clear as day. He’s looking at the real Bokuto, Akaashi realises. Not the moody, distant Bokuto of the past week, a pale imitation of his former self.

“I never want that to happen to me,” Bokuto confides. “I don’t want to end up like that.”

It’s strange to see Bokuto, who always sees the best in everything and everyone, so vulnerable. Akaashi closes his eyes and concentrates on the rhythm of Bokuto heartbeat against his own. When he opens them again, Bokuto is staring at him, expression unreadable. Akaashi feels his face grow warm.

“Akaashi,” Bokuto whispers. “We could be dead in a week. We could be dead in a day.” He bites his lip, suddenly uncertain. “If I die tomorrow—”

“No,” Akaashi cuts in. His throat is tight and his voice comes out strange, but it’s somehow important that Bokuto doesn’t finish that sentence. “You’re not going to die tomorrow.”

Bokuto looks taken aback. But then his expression softens, and he dips his head so that their noses are almost touching. Bokuto’s eyes are beautiful up close. That’s Akaashi’s last thought before Bokuto leans in and kisses him.

It’s gentle, cautious, as if he’s afraid Akaashi might resist.

Akaashi has never wanted to push Bokuto away, and he isn’t about to now. Something flares to life beneath the surface of his skin; he pulls Bokuto closer, hungry with a sudden want, and kisses him back.

The mattress beneath Akaashi is thin enough for him to feel the floor when Bokuto presses him into it. Their kisses grow heated, desperate, mouths roaming and t-shirts pushed up to get at skin. Heat pools in Akaashi’s stomach, and he throws his head back and and chants Bokuto, Bokuto, _Bokuto._

Bokuto rocks into him, fingers digging into his hips, and it hurts, but everything hurts anyway— the physical pain is a welcoming distraction. Akaashi gasps under his touch, holding on tight and not wanting to let go.

 

 

 

 

“I have an idea,” Kenma says.

From where he’s seated on the opposite end of the couch, Bokuto perks up. Akaashi shifts, trying to deal with the residual guilt from sleeping through his watch and waking up hours later to the image of Bokuto curled up against him, mouth open and snoring lightly. Yet, he can’t bring himself to regret any of it.

For all that he’s supposed to be a keen observer, Kenma doesn’t seem to notice the atmosphere between them. Or maybe he’s just choosing to ignore it. “We need some way of getting out of here, and there’s only one vehicle in this town that’s guaranteed to run.”

“Forget it,” Akaashi says immediately. “We’re not stealing a military truck. It’s too dangerous. There are soldiers _everywhere_ —”

“Not the truck,” Kenma says. “Just the battery."

Bokuto cocks his head.

“The car we found wouldn’t go because its battery was missing,” Kenma explains. “It’s simple. We steal a new one from one of the trucks, take it back to the junkyard.”

Akaashi considers it. Each truck comes with a significant number of soldiers, enough to overpower them easily. There are too many variables, too many things that could go wrong. Even Bokuto looks uneasy at the suggestion.

“Kuroo didn’t die for us to get stuck here,” Kenma tells them flatly. “I won’t sit around and wait for the same thing to happen to us.”

The admission is jarring. It’s the first time Kenma has mentioned Kuroo since the incident in the last town, and it’s only then Akaashi realises how much of a fresh wound it still is. Bokuto flinches and looks away. Akaashi reminds himself that whatever he’s feeling, Kenma and Bokuto have it worse.

“It does sound like the kind of plan he would like,” Bokuto concedes.

“Hypothetically,” Akaashi says. “How would we make this work?”

“I can get the battery,” Kenma answers, without missing a beat. “I know what to do, I’ve seen it done before. You two will act as a diversion."

“Draw the soldiers away, huh?” Bokuto nods slowly. “We could do that.”

“Hypothetically,” Akaashi presses. “What if something happens to one of us?”

“Then the rest carry on,” Kenma answers. There’s an intensity in his eyes that Akaashi finally recognises, a look that’s almost a challenge. “We can do it,” Kenma insists. “We have to try.”

Akaashi already knows Kenma’s won when Bokuto reaches across the couch to nudge Akaashi’s shoulder. “Hypothetically, I could kiss you to stop you worrying so much,” he says.

Akaashi fixes him with a disapproving look, hoping the way his heart rate speeds up slightly won’t show on his face.

“Hypothetically, I could get rid of both of you in your sleep,” Kenma mutters.

Bokuto laughs. Akaashi feels himself flush.

“So we’ll lay out the plans today, head out at dawn,” Kenma decides. “If it works, we could be out of here by tomorrow.”

Bokuto grins. “One last crazy adventure.”

 

 

 

 

According to Kenma, first-person shooter games don’t really prepare you for using a gun in real life. But the principle behind them is similar. Akaashi tells himself this as he lies in wait behind an overturned car, listening carefully for the two soldiers stationed on the other side. Take out all the enemies without being caught. Except, of course, if Akaashi messes this up, there will be no second chances.

He hears the sound of bullets being fired in the distance. One of the soldiers mutters, “What the—”, followed by the telltale sound of a gun being drawn. Akaashi peers out from behind his cover, takes aim at the soldier’s turned back.

Bang. One soldier down. The other whips around, searching for the source of the attack. By the time his eyes fall on Akaashi, it’s too late. He’s a stationary target, even easier to pick off than the first. Akaashi takes cover again, reloads, and waits.

“There you are,” Bokuto says as he makes his way over, around the same time the bodies out front are discovered. They stay hidden, shoulder to shoulder, as the sound of frantic shouting starts up nearby. Akaashi peeks out from behind the car, searching for any sign of Kenma on the other side of the street. He finds nothing.

“Time to go,” Bokuto whispers as a handful of soldiers start congregating, the one in charge barking out orders to track down trespassers. “You ready?”

Bokuto’s expression is serious, but there’s a hint of excitement in his voice. Akaashi nods.

They turn in the direction they came and make a dash for it.

“Over there!” yells a voice, and Akaashi thinks he hears Bokuto laugh as they run at full speed, away from the town center. A crate Akaashi is running past explodes as someone fires at it; they keep going, following the route they’d mapped out, until they reach the restaurant several blocks down.

“Okay,” Bokuto hisses. Heavy footsteps sound from around the corner, but they have maybe a twenty second head start. “See you at the other side.”

Akaashi ducks into the restaurant as Bokuto takes the long way around. Judging from its decor, it had been an expensive one. They’d come across it several days ago, its interior surprisingly well-preserved. The place is devoid of food, but it’s spacious with dozens of tables, each covered in a white tablecloth that goes down to the floor.

There are countless places to hide, which means countless places to search. Perfect to buy them some time.

“They came this way,” says a voice from the entrance. “I saw them run in here.”

Akaashi gets down to a crouch as soldiers begin filling into the restaurant. Hidden from view by one of the separators, he begins to edge his way over to the kitchen door.

“Search the place,” commands another voice. “Don't rest until you find them.”

As quietly as possible, Akaashi pushes open the kitchen door and slips in. Once on the other side, he gets to his feet and starts pulling at the heaviest movable object he can, trying to bring it over to barricade the door. It’s an oven of some sort, and Akaashi heaves until it’s in place.

There’s the sound of a gunshot from behind him, and Akaashi jumps, turns in time to see a soldier at the other end of the kitchen crumple to the floor. Bokuto comes running over from the back entrance. “These ones came round the back,” he explains, gesturing to the few bodies littered around the area. “I think that’s all of them. You done?”

“Yeah,” Akaashi nods.

He can feel himself slowing down a little as they sprint around the side of the building, back to the front. The remaining soldiers seem to have discovered the barricaded kitchen door, and are taking turns ramming their shoulders against it.

“Here goes nothing,” Bokuto mutters as he takes out the grenade Kenma had managed to pinch from the soldiers when they'd entered this town. He removes the pin and hurls it in through the entrance. There’s a second of silence, then a hysterical shout as someone inside seems to realise what’s happening.

Bokuto grabs Akaashi’s hand and yanks him away from the restaurant as the blast goes off. It’s deafening, shaking the ground and sending reverberations through the air around them.

When they straighten, the street seems eerily quiet.

“Did it,” Akaashi breathes, in awe at their success. Bokuto thrusts his fists into the air with a noise of triumph. It’s too early to celebrate, though. “We need to get to the meeting point.”

“Our last stop,” Bokuto grins at him, a glimmer of genuine hope in his eyes. Akaashi crosses his fingers and prays that their luck won’t run out just yet.

 

 

 

 

Their meeting point is a room on the first floor of an abandoned motel, equidistant from the military truck and junkyard. It’s small and hidden away, a door among many lining a maze-like hallway. It’s also empty when they arrive.

“He’s not here,” Bokuto says, pacing nervously. He stops to gather the pillows on the bed one by one, as if Kenma might somehow have squeezed himself into one of the tiny spaces behind them. “He should be here by now.”

Akaashi peers out between the blinds at the street outside. There doesn’t seem to be anyone there, but he can make out the sounds of frenzied voices through the glass. Soldiers stationed in other areas must have been drawn over by the sound of the blast. They’re probably searching for them this very moment.

Bokuto turns worried eyes on him. “Akaashi?”

“Just a bit longer,” Akaashi promises. “He’ll be here.”

The dread in his stomach grows with each passing second. Now that the adrenaline from the earlier chase is wearing off, Akaashi realises just how tired he is. His hands and legs sting from all the cuts and bruises he doesn’t remember acquiring. In spite of his wariness, Akaashi forces himself to take a seat at the edge of the bed.

Eventually, the door to the room swings open and someone stumbles in. Akaashi leaps up, heart racing. He’s never been so happy to see Kenma’s ridiculous dyed hair and red jacket before. But his relief is short-lived.

“The battery,” Kenma gasps, clutching his side. “I got it out, but— it was heavy and the soldiers, they showed up—” He staggers forward, right hand shooting out to brace his fall.

Bokuto practically vaults over the bed to get to him. “Kenma!” He drops to his knees beside Kenma, gives him a worried once-over. “Are you okay?”

Kenma withdraws his right hand from its place on the floor, leaving a dark red handprint behind on the carpet. It’s at that same moment that Akaashi realises Kenma’s left hand hasn’t moved from his side since he entered the room.

“Oh no,” Bokuto whispers. The blood isn’t obvious through Kenma’s black t-shirt, but he’s grown frighteningly pale in the minute. “No, no, no.” Bokuto reaches out, but Kenma flinches away, curling into himself with a whimper.

Akaashi doesn’t remember making the decision to move, but his legs carry him over to them automatically, arms moving to help prop Kenma up in a sitting position against the wall. “Don’t move,” Akaashi mutters, and Kenma draws a ragged breath as Akaashi moves his hands and applies pressure to the wound. He feels warm blood against his palms.

“The battery is… a block away,” Kenma pants, every word an effort. “You have to go… get out of here. Get the car.” Akaashi wants to tell him to stop talking, tell him it’s making his injury worse, but it’s already so bad that Akaashi doesn’t know if it will make any difference. There's blood everywhere. Akaashi keeps his hands in place, reminds himself to breathe in through his nose and out through his mouth. At this point, he’s hoping desperately for some sort of miracle.

“You’re going to be fine, Kenma, just hang on,” Bokuto insists, voice thick, grasping one of Kenma’s bloody hands between his own. “We’re getting out of here together, remember? All three of us. That was the plan.”

“It’s okay,” Kenma says as Bokuto repeats the words over and over, _you’ll be fine_ , _you’re okay_ , _just hang in there_ , _Kenma_. “Bokuto, I… I can’t feel my legs.” He makes a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob, and Akaashi can’t remember the last time he felt so absolutely powerless. Kenma is scared and bleeding, and Akaashi doesn’t know what to do.

Bokuto looks so terrified that Akaashi has to look away. That’s when the reality of the situation really hits him— Kenma isn’t going to be fine.

“Bokuto,” Kenma seems to make an attempt to move, then gives up and slumps back down, head falling back against the wall. “I’m glad we met you.” He turns his head towards Akaashi. Even now, his gaze is piercing. “You, too.”

There’s an air of finality to his words. It sounds like a goodbye.

“Kenma,” and Bokuto’s voice cracks. “No, please, Kenma, you can’t do this.”

“Sorry,” Kenma whispers, eyes fluttering shut.

“Don’t be sorry,” Akaashi swallows, fighting to keep his voice even. He doesn’t even know whether Kenma can hear him. “You… you did great, Kenma. Thank you.”

Kenma’s lips move, and Akaashi has to strain to hear his last words. “Same to you.”

Then he goes completely still.

The aftermath is silent. Akaashi doesn’t realise Bokuto is reaching for his hand until it’s over his, sticky but somehow comforting in the small, silent room. Bokuto sucks in a breath, eyes red. Akaashi feels numb.

Kuroo and Kenma, both gone. Now it’s just the two of them.

Their mourning is cut short by the sound of voices. Akaashi starts; he’d almost forgotten what they were dealing with.

“We should get moving,” Bokuto whispers, voice rough. He rises to his feet, wiping furiously at his eyes. Akaashi nods, is about to follow suit when something catches his eye— there’s something in Kenma’s hand.

He knows what it is before he eases it from Kenma’s grip. It’s the very same polaroid of Kuroo and Kenma that used to be hidden away in Kuroo’s bag, except now there’s blood all over the film, smeared across their faces.

 

 

 

 

They find the battery exactly where Kenma had said it would be— a block away from the motel, left under a signboard so damaged that Akaashi can’t even guess what it used to say. Bokuto grabs the box, grunting from the effort of lifting it; Akaashi has no idea how Kenma managed to carry it so far.

“Which way out?” Bokuto asks as they back into the nearest shop, staying temporarily out of sight. He sets the battery down. “The main road is a bad idea. Maybe we should try the one next to it… Akaashi? You’re the expert.”

Akaashi thinks suddenly about how he used to get by on his own, not too long ago. All the snap decisions, the reckless impulsivity born from the need to survive and keep moving forward. Everything had been do or die. Pull the trigger, take the jump, don’t look back.

Making choices, he realises, is a very different process when you have something to lose.

“Bokuto,” he says quietly, and just from the tone of his voice Bokuto seems to know something is up. Akaashi chooses his words carefully. “If we leave the battery, we’ll have a much better chance of getting out of the town center alive.”

Surprise passes over Bokuto’s face, before his gaze hardens. “And let Kenma die for nothing?” he asks harshly. He drops to a crouch, grips the edge of the battery in a gesture that’s almost protective. “I’m not going anywhere without this.”

His knuckles are white against the black casing. Akaashi is silent.

Bokuto takes a deep breath. “I’ll take the long way around, head back towards the restaurant—”

“Cut through the shopping complex,” Akaashi interrupts. “There will probably be soldiers there, but it’s less distance to cross, and there are lots of places to hide. If we’re lucky— and if we’re fast— we might just make it. I’ll cover you.”

To Akaashi’s surprise, Bokuto jumps to his feet and kisses him, arms snaking around his waist to pull their bodies together. Akaashi stiffens, then slowly allows himself to relax into it. Bokuto smells of blood and sweat, but his touch is comforting all the same.

When Bokuto releases him and steps back, he has his game face on, brows drawn together and a determined look in his eye. “Let’s do this.”

 

 

 

 

They make it down the several cordoned off streets leading to the shopping complex without a hitch. Once they’re inside the building, it’s a matter of getting to the other side, taking out any soldiers before they’re taken out themselves.

Akaashi sneaks up behind another soldier, downs him in one go. He’s running low on bullets, but at least he’ll be able to use Bokuto’s rifle if he has to. It’s a difficult enough job carrying the battery while trying not to get killed; Bokuto is as good as an unarmed target.

They stick closely to the rows of shops lining the complex as they move forward. It seems almost too good to be true that they make it the better part of the way completely unharmed.

“Is that all of them?” Bokuto pants. Sweat is running down the sides of his face from the effort of keeping pace.

“I think so,” Akaashi can see the exit just up ahead. “Just a little more—”

There’s a searing pain as something rips into his shoulder, throwing him into the metal shutters of the store they’re in front of. The clanging that ensues echoes loudly through the empty complex. Akaashi brings a hand up and feels blood, realises a second later that he’s been shot. His right arm feels like it’s on fire.

Several steps ahead of him, Bokuto stops. “Akaashi—”

“No, keep moving—” Akaashi yells, but it’s too late. The first shot ricochets off the floor at their feet, the second catching Bokuto in the thigh, sending him lurching forward. The battery crashes to the ground with him.

Akaashi staggers over, eyes scanning the grounds for the perpetrator. He spots someone leaning over the railing of the second floor, picks up his gun with his left hand and aims wildly. Three shots and the soldier falls. Pure luck.

“You okay?” Akaashi asks Bokuto, trying to suppress the panic threatening to take hold of him. He grits his teeth against the throbbing in his shoulder. The shots they’d taken aren’t fatal, but backup is sure to be on its way. They don’t want to get trapped in the building. “We have to get out of here—”

Voices drift over from the direction of the entrance. The soldiers are already here.

Bokuto tries to pick himself up, but it’s obvious he’s in a lot of pain. He squeezes his eyes shut, resting his forehead against the ground. Akaashi looks from the exit to Bokuto, then to the clothes store several meters away from them. Even if they were to make it to the exit, there’ll be nowhere to hide once they’re outside.

He makes up his mind and drags Bokuto towards the store, physically across the floor as Bokuto clings to the battery, which seems to have taken no damage from the drop.

The store is large, and seems to have been the battleground for some sort of conflict in the past. Everything in the room is wrecked, charred, or overturned; the interior of the dressing rooms are exposed thanks to the top half of the walls having been ripped away. Akaashi’s heart nearly stops when he sees several figures in the shop with them— but no, those are just mannequins. Numerous others lie on the floor, some of them in pieces, bearing a disturbing resemblance to real bodies.

It’s not Akaashi’s first choice for a hideout, but it beats being vulnerable out in the open, and the store’s complicated layout could work to their advantage.

Bokuto maneuvers himself into a sitting position and starts bandaging his wound with a stray article of clothing from the racks. Akaashi wants nothing more than to go over to him, but every second wasted is a second closer to them being discovered— he needs to find a way out of this predicament. There’s a staircase right there, leading up to an entire second level of the store, and Akaashi shuffles over cautiously. Every movement sends pinpricks of pain up his right arm; he’s barely ascended the first step before he stops.

The stairs, especially nearer the top, look as though they’ll crumble at the slightest touch. If Akaashi hadn’t been paying attention, he might have continued upwards, only to plummet to an early death in the men’s section below.

“How far are we from the car?” Bokuto asks in a strained voice.

Akaashi turns and goes over to him. “Not that far.” A new wave of fear joins his frustration as he sees the dark red staining the cloth around Bokuto’s wound. Bokuto looks so much like Kenma, pale and bleeding out on the floor, that Akaashi feels his breath quickening. He had let Kenma die. He can’t let Bokuto die too.

There’s a shout from outside, the sound of a soldier finding a fallen comrade. “Can you walk?” Akaashi asks.

Bokuto winces as he tries unsuccessfully to get up. “I don’t think so.”

Akaashi’s heart sinks. He tries to lift his right arm, clamps down on his lower lip to stop himself hissing in pain. He won’t be able to carry Bokuto out of here.

“This is it, huh?” Bokuto smiles faintly. It wobbles at the edges. “They’ll be here any minute.”

Hysteria bubbles up in Akaashi’s chest, but he fights it.

“You know, the soldiers never shot directly at us,” Bokuto says. “I don’t know about Kenma— but those soldiers weren’t trying to kill us.”

It’s easy to complete that thought. “They want to take us back to their base in Tokyo,” Akaashi concludes.  Between death and capture, he doesn’t know which is worse.

Bokuto bites his lip. “I won’t go with them.”

Akaashi opens his mouth to tell him that at least being taken would mean they’d still be alive, that they’d still have a chance at escape. But the moment he meets Bokuto’s eyes, he knows what Bokuto wants him to do.

“No,” Akaashi says weakly. “I can’t.”

“Please,” Bokuto begs. His hair is matted to his forehead with sweat, and Akaashi wants to reach over and brush it out of his face. “I can’t run. I’d rather die here than be taken.”

Akaashi can’t think. He shakes his head furiously, backing away from Bokuto. There’s a strange sound— a shallow, frightened breathing— and it takes a while for Akaashi to realise it’s coming from himself.

“Please,” Bokuto says again. He looks desperate and helpless and Akaashi still remembers everything Bokuto had said to him that night, remembers what it had felt like to kiss him. _I never want that to happen to me_. _I don’t want to end up like that._

Slowly, Akaashi raises his gun.

He’s scared of being alone again, scared of being the person he used to be before he’d met Bokuto. But Akaashi knows this isn’t about what he wants. It’s not even about what Bokuto wants. As he aims his gun, hand shaking, Akaashi realises he would never be able to do what Kenma had done in the last town. Two months on the road, five different towns, and countless corpses later, and Akaashi can’t put a bullet in his friend’s head.

He tosses his gun to the floor.

The resignation in Bokuto’s eyes hurts more than the bullet in Akaashi’s shoulder. He watches as Bokuto’s eyes scan the room, settling on his own discarded rifle on the floor. In his panic, Akaashi had forgotten all about it.

“Wait—” Akaashi stammers, but instead of picking up the gun and turning it on himself, Bokuto lifts it and points it at Akaashi.

“I have one more bullet,” Bokuto says. “You can still get to the car without me.”

Akaashi’s breath catches in his throat. “No,” he chokes.

He doesn’t know what he wants. He doesn’t know what Bokuto is thinking, whether he’s doing this to try and scare Akaashi away. The one thing he’s certain of is how Bokuto must have felt when Kuroo turned his gun on him.

“Over here,” comes a voice from just outside the shop. “There’s blood, they came this way.”

Their time is up. Bokuto still has his gun trained on him. Akaashi takes an instinctive step backwards, feels something soft under his shoe. It’s a necktie from one of the overturned racks. He’s in the men’s section.

Bokuto takes a deep breath. “Put your hands on your head,” he says softly, and there are probably seconds till the soldiers flood into the shop, but Akaashi obeys without question because he trusts Bokuto, trusts him with his life, and the last thing he sees before the staircase to the second floor comes crashing down around him is Bokuto aiming upwards and firing at the area above his head.

Everything that follows is hazy.

There’s rubble all around him, blocking most of his view of the shop. Akaashi’s arms had shielded him from most of the impact, but he’s disoriented; he registers something hard pressing into his back and hears the sound of the soldiers arriving, with their heavy footsteps and, “Don’t move, put your hands in the air!”

It’s exactly as Bokuto had predicted. The soldiers don’t kill Bokuto, they drag him out of the shop, struggling and yelling the whole way. They take him and leave, don’t seem to notice the pile of rubble several meters from where Bokuto had been sitting. They’re in and out in seconds.

And then Akaashi is alone.

He doesn’t know how long he lies there, buried under debris. At some point, he regains the feeling in his body, gathers enough strength to push concrete aside and climb out. The shop looks the same as it had before, battery lying on the ground next to where Bokuto had been sitting. Something flares up in Akaashi, and he kicks it as hard as he can.

The battery skids less than a meter before stopping, unharmed. Pain shoots up Akaashi’s leg, and he drops to a crouch with a curse. His head and arm hurt. Now his leg hurts, too.

Akaashi feels more tired than he has in weeks, maybe months. He stays hunched over on the ground and takes deep breaths until, slowly, the frustration fizzles out into nothingness.

 

 

 

 

Osaka is an hour’s drive away, his last shot at salvation. The military base is back in Tokyo, almost 500 kilometers in the opposite direction. Bokuto will probably be dead by the time Akaashi gets there. Probably.

There’s a blood-stained polaroid on the passenger seat next to him, a tiny stuffed owl toy hanging from the cracked rear-view mirror. Akaashi thinks back to how this had all begun, with him reaching for a coil of rope in an abandoned mall, only to be stopped.

The steering wheel is wet, but Akaashi has no time to worry about something like that. He hits the accelerator and drives.


End file.
